Atonement
by Imogen74
Summary: I know, it's a title already - but this is very apt. Sherlock is a prat. Everyone knows it but him. And he's about to face the consequences. M. Always. Perhaps some Sherlolly?
1. Chapter 1

Forgetting common pleasantries was something John Watson expected from Sherlock Holmes. He never expected his friend to inquire after his health, his dating situation, his financial struggles or his family. He did, however, expect him to visit him when hospitalized. Shot. With a bullet. When working with said friend, on a case John didn't even wish to take. What a prat.

Why did he bother? He needed an out. Living with the man was bordering on intolerable, & what was he doing it for, anyway? Find a flat nearby & move into it. Of course, continue to work with him (he was, in truth, good fun), but he'd no longer be taken for granted. Taken for a ride. Taken, indeed, in every way possible. He fancied himself stupid. Everyone had warned him. And now... Now he was alone, in hospital, with a bullet having just been removed from his back. It could've killed him! Damn that Sherlock Holmes. Damn him to hell.

::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock had no idea John was seething in hospital. That was the problem. He had heard he was fine, & so fine he was. Fine. No need to bother further. The murderer was still at large, & Sherlock needed to find him out. To the morgue, he must away - John would be home in a day or two & with any luck, he'd have solved it with the criminal safely behind bars. He smiled to himself. He was an excellent man. A good man. A brilliant man. Indeed, yes. All of these things, & more. He required a biographer - someone to pen his brilliance so future generations might admire his mind & marvel at it.

::::::::::::::::::

Molly sighed heavily in the morgue. Many bodies had been brought in recently, & it caused her disquiet to see it. A sweet girl by nature, she was easily effected by so much death. Curious she was a pathologist.

She was cleaning her instruments & readying herself for the next procedure. She heard the sound of voices in the hall approaching. Dammit. She hated having people there before she had properly prepared herself.

In waltzed Sherlock Holmes. He dismissed her as inept, demanded she retrieve the body in question, & left unceremoniously. She stood as if slapped. He was the rudest man she had ever known. Why she continued to do his bidding, she couldn't say. If at any time she found him attractive, that had certainly passed with his treatment of her & indeed, everyone he knew. Done. Done with him & his fast-talking self. He could get his own damn coffee.

:::::::::::::::

He was pleased. How quickly he deduced the puzzle. Of course the blood wasn't the killer's, as Lestrade falsely assumed. He was improving, if possible. He'd stop by his Mycroft's later to gloat. He had surreptitiously obtained information that had aided in the capture, but it was Sherlock that had finalized the problem. Had used his intellect to undo it. His mind. His brain. He was marvelous, & he knew it.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft had just settled next to the fire after a very long day. It was raining steadily outside, & the chill was sharp. He was grateful for the fire, for the brandy he was sipping. His mood changed decidedly when he heard the rapping at the door to his flat. Mycroft hardly ever entertained. He couldn't imagine who could be disturbing his solace, but he was determined to dismiss whoever it was without preamble.

"You require a butler, Mycroft. Your attendance to your door is decidedly wanting," Sherlock said as he made his way past his brother.

"Since I have visitors but rarely, a butler would be of little use." He glared at Sherlock. "To what do I owe this dubious pleasure, Sherlock?"

He smiled. "I have the man in custody that shot John. Moran. I believe he was on your short list..."

"Yes. One of Moriarty's. Well done. Is John pleased?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I imagine he is. I caught the fellow."

"You imagine? Don't you know?"

"I haven't seen him."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Really. Really, Sherlock? You haven't seen him?"

"No. Should I have? The doctor had indicated he was fine..."

"Have a seat, brother," & he went to pour out some sherry. Brandy was his preference, but when dealing with Sherlock, he fancied something a tad more sweet. "John Watson is your only friend, Sherlock Holmes. It is expected that you visit him when he's in hospital."

"But..."

"No excuses. I have no friends, & even I understand that when a person whom one spends time with, confides in, &..." he paused, "and, well, whatever it is you do...one visits said friend in hospital. Especially when that person was shot as a result of an escapade you arranged," Mycroft finished his speech & smiled at Sherlock.

"I arranged no escapade. It's called work, Mycroft," he snarled the name. "And I resent the implication that his injury is my fault," he stood, not sipping the sherry. "I cannot fathom what you mean by your preposterous speech," and out he went.

Mycroft was left chuckling to himself.

::::::::::::::::::::

Sherlock had replayed the incident in his mind. Of course, he had underestimated Moran. He hadn't banked on his being so crafty, but he had got him! John's fault for pushing him out of the way if the bullet to receive it himself. Sherlock had never suggested he behave in such a perverse manner. Honestly, who takes a bullet for another person, friend or otherwise? He sneered. John wouldn't have expected him to do such a thing.

But Mycroft likely had a point. Perhaps he was being a bit of a prat not visiting. He had assumed his time would be better spent hunting down Moran. John would understand.

He'd go tomorrow. He'd see how he was, & tell him Moran was caught. Everything would be set right.


	3. Chapter 3

He was packing up his clothes waiting for discharge papers. He hadn't heard anyone enter the room, but that was mostly because the hospital was so loud.

"Well, John. Looking spry."

"Sherlock! You scared the shit out of me..."

"No need for vulgarity, John."

John Watson sneered. "Oh, that's grand. You are going to lecture me? You've got some nerve, mate."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Well, that's that then," he observed the room, & grabbed the Times.

"You've circled things in the classifieds..."

"That's right," and he pushed passed him.

"Whatever for?"

"Flat shopping."

Sherlock followed him out the door. "Flat shopping?"

"Again right. You're certainly in the right business, mate." He was walking down the hall toward the discharge area.

"But...why?"

"Why? Why you ask?" His voice was elevated. "I'll tell you bloody why. Because I'm sick of being passed over. I'm sick of you & your inconsiderate self. I'm sick of doing everything from getting the milk to getting shot. I'm bloody well sick of it, Sherlock Holmes. You've taken advantage of me for the last effing time. You lie, you fake your death, you're a piss poor flat mate. You're rude. I'm your bloody friend, & did you visit me here?" No response. "No. No you didn't. I took a fucking bullet for you. A bullet! And there you stand..." His hand waved up & down in Sherlock's direction. "You stand there, like a git. You've no idea why I'm so bloody angry. And that's why. That's why I'm moving out."

A few of the nurses clapped. "You tell him, dear. You could do much better. What sort of boyfriend doesn't visit when his man is in hospital?"

"No...I..." John attempted to explain himself.

"And he doesn't even look sorry...look at him, Anne. He's so smug." They nodded knowingly to each other.

Sherlock rolled his eyes & addressed John. "It's not my fault you were shot."

"That's it?! That's all you have to say?" John was yelling.

"What would you have me say?"

"How about, I'm sorry? That's a start."

"Sorry for what?"

Papers were handed to the doctor. "Nothing. Goodbye, Sherlock." And off he went.

Sherlock looked after him, & sensed himself being watched. He looked at the pair of nurses eyeing him with disdain. "It wasn't my fault he was shot."

"That's what they all say, dear. Best just to apologize & bring home some flowers. Maybe make him some dinner."

"You mean cook?"

"Just so," said Anne. "Make him his favorite. A nice glass of wine. Flowers. Clean the flat. It'll all be set right." She smiled at him.

He considered, & nodded his goodbye.

::::::::::::::::::::

Such vitriol was not to be tolerated. Such venomous language leveled at his person. What was it about? Ever since the Fall John had behaved curiously. Perhaps he had underestimated the effect it had had on John. Perhaps he should do as those silly nurses suggested. But really, flowers? If he were to lavish flowers on anyone, it wouldn't be John. Molly, perhaps...but John? Silly, silly idea.


	4. Chapter 4

There was nothing to be done about it. John Watson had moved out. He & Sherlock had had a nasty row, & John moved out.

Well, that's that, then. He had lived on his own for most of his life, & now he would do it again. Mrs. Hudson, as irritating as she could be, would suffice as company when his skull proved to be too mute.

His first case following the departure of his friend (his eyes watered a touch), was a kidnapping. Young bride. Wealthy groom. Simple, really.

He told himself it mattered little that John wasn't there as often as he'd like. He told himself that life was, indeed, a bit better without the added distraction of having to explain his machine-like mind working at a ferocious pace. He told himself these things. And he almost believed them.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Molly was getting ready to leave for the night. It had been a long day, & she was looking forward to two consecutive days off. That hardly ever occurred. She was giddy with the thought of it. She was, indeed, so happy with these thoughts, that she didn't hear the man enter the morgue. She was humming to herself, cleaning the work space.

"Molly, I'll require your assistance with this experiment," sounded out a very deep voice.

She turned, & spotted Sherlock sitting at the microscope, peering through it with squinted eyes.

Her resolve had not waned. She was going home, end of story. "Sorry, Sherlock. My shift ended ten minutes ago. I'm going home."

"No you're not," and he smiled slightly.

"Oh, yes, I am." She didn't smile.

He studied her a moment. "Molly, it would be most helpful to this case, & I'd be very grateful if you'd kindly assist me in the lab for a while. I only mean to catch a murderer, but then, if you've more pressing concerns..."

"I have, actually. I have many things I need to attend to. I'm sorry, but you'll need to phone John, for I'm not helping you this evening, Sherlock," that sounded a bit more harsh than she intended. "Good luck, though." And she quitted the morgue.

He was left alone. Alone, once more. How was this to be born? It was utterly insupportable. He ran his fingers through his hair & sighed. He got up from his station & sought out the instruments he required to complete his work.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He returned from the Yard utterly spent. He retrieved his violin & began a solemn tune; Sherlock played well into the young hours of morning. There was only one person he could think of that might help him in this ridiculous state. One person, who, if he thought about it, truly understood what it meant to be him, for he was almost more like Sherlock than even Sherlock could boast. His brother would know what this was about. Mycroft would be pleased that he came to him for help, for solace, for insight. Yes. Mycroft held the answer to why people were behaving in such a ludicrous manner.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft Holmes had just entered his flat after a very trying day. So many meetings, it was difficult to keep track of it all. He had begun to think that he needed a change of pace. He needed a fresh outlook. He felt stale, old. His limbs cracked too often. His head hurt with fierce regularity. His fatigue was acute & while he was, in general, pleased with his situation, he had begun to feel a restlessness that was quite foreign. He brewed some tea & sat on the very plush sofa in the sitting room. He began reflecting on his situation more earnestly. Perhaps he needed a holiday.

His bell rang out. His face registered a frown. Who was interrupting his evening? He'd ignore it. Again, the sound rang out. Blast. He'd answer & dismiss whomever it was.

He opened the door to see his younger brother standing there, looking careworn.

"Good evening, Sherlock. Whatever are you doing here?"

Sherlock entered the flat, & began removing his scarf & coat. He slumped into a chair & sighed, looking at his brother.

"John has moved out."

"I know it," Mycroft said, & tended to the kettle in the kitchen. He returned & handed Sherlock a cup.

"Yes. And Molly is refusing to help me at the lab." He sipped his tea. "Bland. What is this swill, Mycroft? Is this what you drink daily? No wonder you always appear so peaked."

Mycroft was sipping opposite Sherlock. He smiled at him. "Well, brother. I see its done nothing to quell your manner. You've not told me your purpose."

He shifted, & cleared his throat. "Right. Well, it's just that..." He paused a moment. "Mycroft, why do you suppose they are behaving in such ludicrous ways? What has driven them to it?"

He laughed aloud. "You have done this, Sherlock. You have driven them to behave thusly. You...because you are neither appreciative nor are you kind."

"You have some nerve. You have none of those qualities, either."

"Yes, but I don't mind when I have no flat mate...as you can plainly see, I have none. And nor do I mind it when mousy pathologists refuse to aid experiments," he laughed.

"Really, Mycroft. She's hardly mousy."

"Isn't she? Well, no matter. You require some time apart from these people, Sherlock. Live on your own for a spell."

Sherlock was silent. He pondered his brother's advice. "What do you do with yourself Mycroft? You work at some desk, answering tiresome emails, phone calls...& you come home to an empty flat & horrid tea. You require exercise."

"I rather thought we were discussing what you need, Sherlock," though he was intrigued.

"Yes, but...perhaps they are one in the same..."

"If you are suggesting...I hope you're not," and he got up to retrieve a beverage a touch stronger than the tea.

"Why not? It'll be magnificent. Think of it," & Sherlock was standing. He was pacing. "We could solve crimes in record time! Half the time, really. None of that irksome explanation..."

Mycroft returned holding two glasses of brandy & a pack of cigarettes. "Here, Sherlock. Take these. You aren't yourself," Mycroft lit his own cigarette. "You forget, I have a job."

"Take some time off until I can convince John to come back."

The brothers looked at one another. Mycroft thought a moment. What if...

"Goodnight, brother. I'll call you in the morning," and he escorted Sherlock out.


	6. Chapter 6

In he walked to 221B. Quiet. Very. He sighed heavily & went to the window. Perhaps his brother was right. Perhaps he was a prat & he was now enjoying his comeuppance. Well, that suited him fine. He was fine without them before, he'd be fine once more.  
But he wasn't fine. He began to play Bach as per his tendency when sullen. After completing the piece, he put down the instrument & walked over to his skull, peering deep into the empty eyes. A smile was permanently affixed to its...face? Hardly a face. It was mocking him & his isolation.  
What had he done when he was faced with Moriarty destroying the people in his life? He had faked his death. He had turned to Molly. Molly...  
He immediately went to fetch his coat.

::::::::::::::::::::::::

Molly was nearly done with the postmortem. She was stitching up the bloke with tenderness, much as she did everything. She smiled softly & hummed a tune. She'd finish up & go home to Toby, to telly, to tea.  
She heard someone enter the morgue, & turned, assuming it was an intern offering assistance cleaning up. She was wrong.  
"Sherlock."  
"Good evening, Molly."  
She smiled. "I was just finishing up...so...I'll be heading home."  
"Oh," he sounded downtrodden.  
It effected her but little. She returned to her cleaning.  
"Molly...I...did you know that John has moved out?"  
"No. I hadn't heard that. Detective Donovan will be pleased."  
"Yes..."  
She looked at him closely. Well, as close as she could manage given that she had stationed herself rather far from him. "Are you alright?"  
"No. As a matter of fact, I'm not. So much so that I'm considering having Mycroft assist me for the time being."  
Molly smirked. "Shocking."  
"Indeed."  
"You know, it might be good for the two of you...to...spend time together. I don't know him well, but I know that you are very alike & not very close."  
Sherlock looked crookedly at her. "We are nothing alike, Molly. Mycroft is insufferable. I am not."  
"No?"  
"No."  
"Well, John thinks otherwise. And as a matter of fact, so do I."  
"You...you think me...?"  
"Yes, Sherlock. I do. So much so, that I've abandoned all decorum where you're involved. I'm through being your puppy. I still will help you, but that's all," she smiled triumphantly.  
His face fell a touch. "I never expected you to be my puppy."  
"No...but you never stopped me, either. And you were always such a prat about it. I was beginning to think myself stupid."  
"But you're not," he shuffled his feet, recalling Mycroft's observation.  
"I know. That is why I'm putting an end to my silliness," Molly smiled. "You should work with your brother. Give John some time...a few weeks, perhaps. Then go & speak with him."  
"You sound as though you are suggesting our relationship is more than it is."  
"Is it?" She looked earnestly at him.  
"Of course not," he lowered his eyes. "John Watson is not gay."  
"No...but perhaps..."  
"Molly. Don't speak of things you know nothing about."  
She sighed. "And what don't I know now?"  
"My sexual orientation."  
"Right. Well, will you tell me?"  
He considered. "Heterosexual," and he left.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Molly stood a moment. Interesting. Sherlock was not gay. She rather thought he was, or at least, asexual. But he likes girls...  
Her mind drifted to things she had no business thinking of: did he masturbate? Did he own porn? Was he a virgin? Stop it Molly. Silly thoughts. He was still a git. But now, he was most assuredly a straight git, & she smiled softly.


	7. Chapter 7

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!"

"Goodness Sherlock! What are you screaming about?" Mrs. Hudson was running up the stairs. It was 8 am, & Sherlock Holmes was screaming her name. This had better be important.

She discovered him pacing frantically. "Sherlock?"

"Where are they?"

"I disapprove you smoking, young man. I'm not telling you...not that I'd take your silly cigarettes," she added under her breath.

"Not my cigarettes! The biscuits you brought up yesterday afternoon."

"That was three days ago, & how am I supposed to know what you did with them in this mess?" She was picking things up randomly, putting them places. "What do you want with biscuits, anyway? Since John left, you barely eat..."

Sherlock heaved a very heavy sigh. "Mycroft will be here any moment. I require biscuits for his consumption."

"Mycroft? What's he doing coming here in the middle of the week at this hour?"

"Talking business," he returned dismissively. "Mrs. Hudson, have you any biscuits or any pastry of any sort in your flat?"

"Of course I do."

"Might you kindly bring some up for us?" He smiled as best he could in his agitation.

She returned his smile. "You know, I believe I'll take your rent under review," and she left.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Mycroft was in the car looking out of the window. Storm was rolling in, & he observed the sky with an air of exasperation. Rain. Always so much rain. Well, it was England. What else was to be expected?

He thought about was he was doing. He considered its reasoning. Little reason, really. Sherlock was lonesome. Mycroft was as well...though he believed there was a bit more to it for both of them. He never gave much attention to such things. Why should he? His work was of such a nature that it was his life wholly & utterly. He envied his brother to a degree. His freedom. His eccentricities, however irksome & silly to Mycroft was Sherlock utterly. And what was he? His umbrella nearly dictated his existence. The only thing that deviated from his strict schedule was whether he brought the thing with him or not, & he nearly always did. And so what had he at day's end? A dry or a wet umbrella. He told himself that his work was so important that nations could fall if he mucked things up. In truth, things could get rather bad if he erred, but he knew it would fix itself. He wasn't indispensable, no matter what he told himself.

Ah. 221B. How his brother could stand such a place, he had no idea.

He found Sherlock tidying up, which was curious. Tea & coffee were situated on the newly se cluttered table, & did he spy some pastries? Indeed, he did. Sherlock was nervous, & was attempting to impress & make things attractive to him. How sweet.

"Good morning, Sherlock. The flat looks quite good," said Mycroft, entering the flat.

"Thank you, Mycroft. Coffee? Tea?" And he motioned for his brother to be seated.

"Coffee, thank you."

Sherlock nodded & poured out the drink. "Have you given our conversation any thought, brother?"

"I have," and he sat down, reaching for a muffin.

"And?"

"Well...it's interesting, what you propose. But really, brother. Can you imagine it? Us? Working together? And I really cannot be spared for more than a week at Downing Street."

Sherlock scoffed. "You think much of yourself."

"As do you."

He nodded his reply, "That has been called to my attention lately."

"For that reason alone we shouldn't attempt it."

"Quite right."

No sound was heard but Mrs. Hudson mucking about downstairs. A few moments passed thus, until Mycroft stood. "I'll alert the necessary people that I will need to take 10 days for a family emergency. Today is Thursday. I'll be here Monday morning, 8:30am sharp," he began leaving. "Oh...& I'll bring some suitable pastries. Mrs. Hudson should only bother with cake. Her muffins...well...at risk of sounding crude, leave much to be desired." And he left.

Sherlock smiled & clapped his hands together in jubilation. It would be excellent fun having his brother around for a fortnight. He should simply kip in John's room. Make things easier. He mentally slapped himself. What on earth was he thinking? Mycroft? Living with Mycroft. He was going mad, to be sure.

And he began rummaging for his cigarettes.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft walked into 221B with a hint of trepidation. His saunter abandoned, his umbrella firmly in his grasp.

" Sherlock?"

Sherlock Holmes emerged covered in some red substance from the kitchen that Monday, looking curiously at his brother.

"Mycroft! Right on time as usual. Did you bring the refreshment you promised?" He asked as he put down the beakers & began washing up the mess. "I have coffee started if you like..." He turned toward Mycroft, & noticed he hadn't budged. His mouth was slightly agape & his eyes betrayed astonishment.

"I cannot imagine how you managed to convince John to put up with you for as long as you did. Did you drug him?" He reflected. "Perhaps he did, in fact, have post traumatic stress syndrome & poor judgement was a symptom... Here, brother...pastries," and he handed him a parcel.

Sherlock graciously accepted the bag, ignoring Mycroft's jab.

"Have a seat, Mycroft," said Sherlock as he gestured toward an obliging chair. "If, & when, we receive our first client, do allow me to ask the questions. It is my business, & I'm quite good at my work."

Mycroft sneered at his brother. "Never fear Sherlock. I'll not bother with your trivia. No doubt I'll have it sorted before the chap leaves."

He snickered. "I suppose time will tell."

:::::::::::::::::::::::

Mrs. Hudson heard the yelling from above, but was loathe to investigate. Instead, she saw to the front door. Molly Hooper stood in the doorway.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is Sherlock upstairs?"

"He is, dear. But I'd be careful if I were you... Sounds like dreadful business. I wish John would come back..." Her voice trailed off.

Molly saw herself upstairs. She had heard the ruckus Mrs. Hudson was referring to, but continued on her way.

Molly hadn't expected to see the scene that presented itself as she entered.

Sherlock was eating a pastry. Mycroft was playing the violin, & both were arguing. At least, it sounded as though they were arguing, yet they appeared to be amused. Neither had heard the young woman enter the flat.

"Hello?" Molly quietly said.

Sherlock looked around out of his conversation with Mycroft. When he saw Molly, he stood.

"Molly? What are you doing here?" Ever a child, he was shocked to see her out of her usual environment, but also recalled she was cross with him.

"Well, I need your help," she spoke hesitantly.

Sherlock would never have thought he'd hear those words uttered from Molly. "You need what?"

"Are you still detecting?"

"Of course."

"Then I need your help."

She shuffled in, sat down, & the Holmes brothers stared intently awaiting a speech from the mousy pathologist.


	9. Chapter 9

Molly Hooper fidgeted with her ponytail. She hated that she was here asking for help. She hated that Sherlock Holmes was the only one she knew that could help her. She hated that John wasn't here, for he would have been able to calm her nerves, & in his stead sat Mycroft Holmes, more intimidating than his brother.

"Right. So...I have an elderly neighbor. He's a bit nutty, but alright," she paused a moment to look at them. No movement. "He's been nervous lately. Been...I dunno...not himself. I asked him about it, since I check on him occasionally. He said he'd noticed people entering the basement of our building. People he didn't know. And they weren't coming back out..." Molly's voice trailed off.

"Go on, Molly," Sherlock encouraged.

"Right. Well, I didn't think much of it. Mr. Bast isn't the most reliable of people when it comes to accuracy. But then...I noticed something," she hesitated in her recollection. "A delivery truck arriving at my building every day, at roughly the same time. Two people would emerge. One would return to the truck about ten minutes later."

Sherlock sat back in the chair. Mycroft stood up & went to the window.

"Anything else strange about your building, Miss Hooper?"

"In what way?"

"Storefront? Is it next to other buildings holding flats? Is it in a business district?"

Molly looked at Mycroft. She thought that none of these attributes were particularly strange. "Well...there's no storefront. But yes to the other questions," she replied.

Molly's eyes found her feet. She began wondering if she wasn't overreacting a touch. She was only here because Mr. Bast had completely freaked her out.

"And this is the only suspicious activity you've noticed?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes."

"And...how long has it been going on...that you've noticed?"

"About a week now," Molly was beginning to feel sillier by the moment. "I'm only here because I know the police won't look into it, & Mr. Bast is completely undone by it. And frankly, I'm nervous too. What happens to those people? Where do they go?" She ended frantically.

Sherlock got up & went to her. He knelt at her side. "I'll sort it for you, Molly..." and he rose, having forgotten himself as well as Molly. He was certain she was still cross with him. Well, if there was one way to undo that, it would be solving her little mystery. "Mycroft & I will be by your flat directly. Tell me, at what time of day does this truck normally arrive?"

"Just after dinner, usually. Maybe 7?"

"Very good. We will be by at 6," & he began showing her to the door.

"Sorry," Molly began. "What is your rate? I'm afraid I haven't much in terms of disposable income."

"Let's call it an even trade."

"Trade of what?"

"Coffee fetching."

Molly smiled & left.

"Well well well, brother. How do you expect to pay me when you aren't charging fees?" Mycroft had a smirk on his face.

"Molly has been very good to me & I owe her this favor."

"No...there's more to it. No matter. I'll find you out, Sherlock. And then you'll thank me."

"Mycroft, if you expect compensation, I suggest you shut up & begin gathering some things to move into John's room."

"Pardon?"

"You'll be keeping late hours. You'll not want to travel half way across London by the time we're through for the night."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. How irritating. Living, once more, with Sherlock. He had really believed that segment of his life was over.


End file.
